Archive of Our Own

Title: Something Fragile (When You Hold Your Breath)
Author: Ras Elased
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 8002
Warnings: Um. Unrealistic lap dances? Is that a warning or encouragement?

Summary: "What the hell?" Arthur shouts over the noise of ABBA. He glares at the horribly gaudy clothing of the men on the stage that is somehow louder than the music and flashier than the multicolored swirling lights. "This isn't a strip club. This is a gay bar!"

Acknowledgements: Huge thanks to ifyouweremine for the fantastic beta that kicked all of my adverbs to the curb and made this about a million times better, and to puckling for putting up with my emo whining when I was terminally hormonal and about 2 mouse clicks away from sending this whole thing to the recycling bin. You both have the patience of saints! (Also, "purple nurples" shamelessly stolen from SPN and the title is from the lyrics of Underwater which is on my personal soundtrack for this fic. And yes, I am going to be horribly pretentious and use parentheses in my title. The title generally applies more to the continuation of this fic than the fic itself, but whatever. I'm horrible at titles.)

Author's notes: Oh god, people. I have no idea where this came from. It was supposed to just be porn about stripper!Merlin giving Arthur a lap dance, and then it grew PLOT and ANGST and BACKSTORY and I blame QAF (and by extension, cherrybina) for my fascination with skinny twink artists who are happy-go-lucky despite the shit that life throws at them (and are also kind of sex on legs.) So. Make of that what you will. I envisioned this as yet another of my long fics of longness, but as much as I would love to write this, and as much fun as it would be, I'm pretty sure writing an epic-length fic about Merlin as a non-stripper who keeps "accidentally" falling into bed with Arthur would break my brain, in both good and bad ways. Hence, here is the first scene, with a 99% 95% 85% 75% chance this won't be continued OH FUCK IT. I've already started the sequel. Which is technically only chapter 2. THAT'S RIGHT, FOLKS. THIS IS OFFICIALLY THE FIRST WIP I HAVE POSTED IN 4 YEARS. (OMG. WOT. IDEK.) Um. ENJOY?

Gawaine is so bloody fired.

"What the hell?" Arthur shouts over the noise of ABBA. He glares at the horribly gaudy clothing of the men on the stage that is somehow louder than the music and flashier than the multicolored swirling lights. "This isn't a strip club. This is a gay bar!"

Gawaine claps him on the shoulder with a grin. "It's both, mate." Arthur groans, but Gawaine is already dragging him towards the stage. "I told you, Pendragon. This is exactly what you need." Arthur casts a sullen glare at Gawaine, but his assistant is already waving a few quid towards the stage—Gawaine's as straight as an arrow, but he's also terribly shameless.

Arthur hadn't wanted to come. He knew he should have backed out the moment the phrases "strip club" and "get over that nasty bint" fell out of Gawaine's mouth, but the truth was that Arthur had his pride, and the moment Gawaine suggested that his increased dedication to his work was in fact cleverly-disguised moping over Sophia, Arthur knew he couldn't let that claim go unchallenged. He had forgotten, however, that Gawaine was a sneaky bastard, and after a year of working for Arthur, he knew all the right buttons to push.

Gawaine grabs a couple of questionable-looking neon purple beverages from a passing cocktail waiter dressed in a dayglow green speedo. "Cheers!" he says, and when Arthur reluctantly takes the shotglass, Gawaine raises his own in a toast. "To Sophia," he says with faux solemnity, clinking their glasses together. "May her dirty snatch rot from VD." He tosses his shot back with a wide grin and Arthur chokes on his own drink, sputtering as he fixes Gawaine with a warning look.

"Gawaine…" he says, using his best 'I am your boss and you are not allowed to talk about my ex that way even though I sort of agree' voice. As predicted, it has little effect.

"I'm serious, Pendragon," Gawaine says, laying an arm across Arthur's shoulders and guiding him none-too-gently closer to the stage. "The best way to get your mind off Sophia is to find something completely different. And it's not like you don't already prefer cocks," he adds with a sweeping gesture towards the stage, which is indeed filled with cocks on parade. Arthur does a double take when he sees that a stripper dressed as a knight is shedding bits of plastic armor to the tune of "Macho Man." Arthur wonders if getting arrested for punching his best friend in the face is worth it if it means he gets to leave.

Instead, his shoulders slump and he downs the rest of his drink—it's just as vile as he imagined—already waving a waiter over with another. "Just so you know, I'm firing you tomorrow morning."

Gawaine claps him heartily on the back. "That's the spirit!"

Overall, Arthur spends most of the night sulking into his drinks and not really paying attention to anything going on up onstage. There is the one bloke who shimmies his junk in front of Arthur's face until Arthur is forced to tuck a five-pound note in the man's g-string just to make him go away—and he doubts Gawaine will ever stop laughing after that, the bloody wanker—but for the most part, the best entertainment of the night is provided by the cocktail waiter serving their section, a skinny twink who shatters no less than one glass per hour and who dumps a full pint all over the trousers of the wannabe bodybuilder to Arthur's left. Arthur would almost believe that that, too, is an accident, if he hadn't caught the man repeatedly groping the waiter's arse through the metallic gold short-shorts. He meets the waiter's eyes after the fiasco, shocking blue under a head of messy black hair, and he raises his glass in a silent salute for a victory well-played. The waiter grins, wide and bright, and brings Arthur another purple monstrosity with a whispered, "On the house." Arthur decides he's going to leave one hell of a tip.

Arthur hadn't planned on getting drunk. He has to be at the Gallery early tomorrow, to meet with Morgana and her newest pet artist. She'd said the man was "the next Monet," but after seeing the artist's work Arthur isn't so sure. The paintings were indeed breathtaking in their perfection, flawless in technique, but there was something missing. There was no sense of the artist about them, no emotion, no personal investment, as if the artist were simply painting what he thought the viewer wanted to see. Still, most of the patrons of the Pendragon Gallery aren't what Arthur would call discerning art critics—more the wealthy and bored who want ways to flaunt their riches, and Arthur knows he can get them to pay ridiculous amounts of money for mediocre work. He supposes if Morgana is dead set on recruiting this newest talent, the least Arthur can do is be sober while Morgana makes her case. There is also the fact that dealing with Morgana while hung over is a level of torture that should be expressly forbidden in the Geneva Conventions.

But somewhat later into the night, despite Arthur's best intentions, he finds himself listing into Gawaine's side to keep himself propped up, and Gawaine allows a tactical retreat to one of the booths towards the back, away from the stage. The same waiter still serves them, though Arthur's fairly certain that they're no longer in his section. While Arthur is busy leaning his face in his hands and cursing Gawaine's parentage for giving birth to the devilspawn that has dragged him into the ninth circle of Hell, the waiter shows up and asks in that ever-friendly voice, "More purple nurples?"

And Arthur must have had far more to drink than he thought, because there's no way the waiter just said what he thought he said. "Er, what?" he asks eloquently, squinting at the waiter in the hopes the room will stop spinning.

"Purple nurples," the waiter says again. Inexplicably. After a beat of confusion, he explains, "It's what you've been drinking all night."

With a name like that, Arthur knows his hangover tomorrow will be epic. He plants his face in his hands again and groans into his palms. Gawaine laughs in sadistic glee. "No," Arthur mumbles. "I'm pretty sure we've had enough, thanks."

"Alright, then," the waiter says, and Arthur can picture his bright smile without even having to look at him. "Is there anything else I can do for you lads?"

It's the strange inflection that makes Arthur look up. He looks at the waiter, really looks at him for what may be the first time all night. He's leaning one hip against the corner of the booth and wearing a too-tight gold shirt that matches the stupidly short shorts that show every inch of his long, pale, skinny legs. The shirt is button-down and sleeveless, open at the collar to reveal the delicate-looking dip between his collarbones. The outfit is ridiculous, but it's not even half as flashy as some outfits in the club and a great deal more modest, and Arthur thinks he might be a bit disappointed about that. He also thinks he's consumed far too much alcohol.

When Arthur realizes that he's blatantly checking out the waiter who is standing right in front of him, Arthur's eyes snap up. The waiter is wearing a sly half-smile and there is no small amount of amusement in those unnaturally blue eyes. Arthur doesn't think that anyone with those outrageous ears and wearing that absurd outfit should have any reason to laugh at Arthur. "What?" he snaps.

The waiter shrugs and smiles wider. "You just don't look like you're having a very good time. And it's my job to make sure you do."

Arthur just blinks at him. By the time his inebriated brain has worked out the horrifying realization of what exactly the waiter is offering, it's too late. Gawaine is already standing and slipping a thick wad of cash into the waiter's palm. He leans over to whisper something into the waiter's overly-large ear, and he's wearing that grin that means Arthur is about to get into loads of trouble. The waiter nods, his own grin lighting up his face. Arthur can only sit and watch the scene unfold in numb horror, like a train wreck so awful he can't look away. Finally, Gawaine gives the waiter a hearty slap on the back and starts trotting towards the bar. Arthur's stomach drops.

"Hey!" Arthur shouts. "You can't just leave me here!" Gawaine doesn't turn, and Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin when the waiter settles comfortably in Arthur's lap, straddling his knees, looking entirely too amused. "Gawaine!" Arthur calls, and that is absolutely not an edge of panic in his voice. "You are so bloody fired!"

Gawaine just throws him a two-fingered salute and disappears into the crowd.

"Bugger," Arthur mutters under his breath, then turns back to find the waiter has already started to unbutton his appallingly hideous shirt. "What are you—You shouldn't even be doing this! You're a waiter!"

The man rolls his eyes, and Arthur doesn't think that's appropriate etiquette for a man who is clearly about to give Arthur a lap dance.

"A waiter at a strip bar," the man says. "How do you think I earn my tips?" He peels the shirt from his shoulders, revealing a plain white tank top underneath, thin enough for Arthur to make out the hint of nipples in the flashing lights from the stage. Arthur's mouth suddenly goes dry and he has to fist his hands at his sides to keep them from settling at the man's hips.

"Look, I don't want—I don't want to do this." Even to Arthur, it doesn't sound convincing.

The man spreads one broad, slender hand across Arthur's chest and pushes him back slightly, wedging him more tightly against the back of the booth. "Well, your friend already paid me a handsome tip, so I suggest you just lie back and think of England."

Arthur lets his head flop back against the seat with a bereaved sigh. "This is the worst lap dance I've ever had."

The man snorts and raises an eyebrow. He fingers Arthur's tie, and Arthur realizes he must look like a stuffy prig, wearing the slate-grey designer suit and red tie in a strip club. "I'm willing to bet this is the only lap dance you've ever had," the man counters.

Arthur can feel his cheeks start to heat, and he hopes he can hide his blush with the dim light of the club and a bit of bravado. "And it's already the worst," he snaps. "That should tell you something."

The man makes a noncommittal, thoughtful noise. "Hmm. Well, it's not like you're the first hard nut I've had to crack," he says cheekily, then settles fully into Arthur's lap, slotting their hips together. Arthur gasps and slams his eyes shut to keep them from rolling back in his head. Hands glide up his chest to grip his shoulders, and the man uses Arthur's body as leverage to grind down into Arthur, the curve of his arse sliding across Arthur's cock, and the sudden rush of blood to his groin leaves Arthur too lightheaded to be properly embarrassed. Another roll of his hips, and Arthur refuses to believe that that unmanly squeak could have possibly come from him.

"Look," he says, edgy. "I may be the novice here, but I'm pretty sure this isn't by the book." He knows that in a moment, this is all going to get very awkward. He tries to shuffle backwards, away from the friction against his cock, but he's already pressed back against the seat as tight as he can go.

The man licks his lips and grins. "Your friend paid me a very handsome tip. And I like to make sure my customers get their money's worth." Long fingers slip under the lapels of Arthur's suit jacket, sliding over his shoulders and around to the back of his neck. "Now, stop being a prat and just try to enjoy yourself, yeah?" Arthur levels him with a glare which lasts all of a second before fingernails scratch, lightly, against the back of Arthur's neck. Arthur sucks in a breath and his eyes fall closed, then drag back open again.

The man looking down at him with thinly-veiled victory, face inches from Arthur's own. The multicolored lights play across sharp cheekbones, along the curve of lips turned up in a wry smile. Arthur hates to admit it, but he thinks maybe Gawaine was right. Arthur needs something different from Sophia to get his mind off her, and nothing could be more different than this dark, smiling, sarcastic boy.

The man rocks into the cradle of Arthur's hips, his movements far too practiced and graceful to belong to the same clumsy waiter who spent most of the night breaking more glasses than he served. Arthur wonders how often he's done this, to be this skilled, how many times he's rubbed himself against the bodies of strangers, and it gives him a sharp pang in his chest. He shakes the thought off, but something of it must still show on his face, because the smile starts to slip from the man's face. He must think he's losing Arthur's interest, because the next thing Arthur knows the man is leaning back, and Arthur only has a moment to stifle the whimper at the loss of the hot pressure against his cock.

It seems the man's plan for regaining Arthur's focus is pulling the tank top over his head, revealing the narrow expanse of his chest. He stretches upwards, and Arthur half expects him to perform some undulating roll of his spine like the dancers on stage, but instead he gives a strange little twist and Arthur realizes he's somehow gotten his elbows tangled in the shirt. Arthur gives an ungentlemanly snort and doesn't offer to help. It only lasts a second before the man pulls himself free, leaving the hair at the back of his head even messier than it was before. Arthur has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the sight, but the man takes one look at Arthur's expression and rolls his eyes, then tosses the shirt at Arthur's face. Arthur catches it with a smirk, because, alright, maybe he's having a little fun.

The man places both hands on the seat above Arthur's shoulders and leans in, looming slightly into Arthur's space. Arthur is a bit overwhelmed by the sudden stretch of so much naked skin in front of him.

Then the man starts to move. And really, the way each sinuous thrust rolls down the length of his skinny body, shoulders to hips, as if his spine is made of water, it's just—it's obscene. Arthur's mouth goes shockingly dry, and right now he would give just about anything for another of those horrid purple atrocities just so he doesn't have to swallow past the coarse tightness in his throat. The man keeps one hand braced above Arthur's shoulder and raises the other to the back of his neck. His eyes fall shut, lips parted, his brow furrowed with something caught midway between concentration and pleasure, and god. Arthur knows that the man's expression is all part of the act, bought and paid for, but Arthur imagines that same expression directed at him in another setting, for another reason, Arthur on his knees sucking wet and messy on the man's cock, looking up into that face to see how deep he can get the indent between those eyebrows, and Arthur wants that, more than he should.

When blue eyes meet Arthur's trapped gaze, the man must see something of Arthur's thoughts, his want too overwhelming to hide. The man's expression falters, just for a second, before he schools it back into place. But Arthur can see the hints of a speculative gleam that wasn't there before, and the wry twist of his mouth is a little softer, a little more genuinely pleased.

The man watches Arthur's face as he drags his hand down the long column of his own throat, the shallow dip over his breastbone. Arthur is embarrassingly pleased to see he isn't like the waxed and shaved muscleheads on the stage. There's a light dusting of hair across his chest and a dark trail below his navel. Arthur feels his face flame as his eyes trace the line down to the edge of the tiny shorts and imagines where it might lead.

There is absolutely no spare flesh to speak of on the man's pale body, though he's surprisingly defined for someone so scrawny. Still, Arthur can count his ribs. Arthur wants to skim his hand up the man's side, to feel the dip of each ridge with his fingertips, and he reaches out before he can think better of it. The man snatches at his wrist.

"Ah! Hands off the merchandise," he says, but Arthur can hear the sharp edge underneath his teasing tone. The man presses Arthur's hand back on the cool vinyl of the seat. "I can touch you, but you can't touch me," he says.

Arthur frowns. "Well, that hardly seems fair." It comes out sounding more like a sullen pout than he'd intended.

That grin returns, and Arthur finds he's rather transfixed on that unceasingly expressive mouth. "You're honestly going to complain about your lap dance because it isn't fair?"

Arthur allows his own mouth to turn up in a mocking smirk. "Well, if you weren't so terrible at it, I wouldn't have to complain at all."

"Mmm. Right," says the man, and curls his long fingers around the back of Arthur's neck. His other hand sneaks down below Arthur's waist, fingertips teasing at the tip of Arthur's hard length trapped inside his trousers. "I can feel how much you're not enjoying this," he says, grinding down hard onto Arthur's cock to prove his point.

Arthur stifles the trailing end of a groan, because, god, he's so hard—his cock straining against his pants with as much frustration as the rest of Arthur feels, his fingernails curling into the smooth vinyl of the seat. But the other man is hard, too. Arthur can feel it, hot against his stomach even through the cloth of his shirt. He can see the way it makes those ridiculous shorts bulge where their bodies are pressed up against each other, where the other man keeps rocking against him, unrelenting and slow with a rhythm a little too much like sex.

The man buries his fingers into the short hairs at the back of Arthur's scalp and pulls gently. Arthur gasps, letting his head fall back to stare up into half-lidded eyes. "Oh, you like that, do you?" Arthur tries to shake his head no, but the fingers tighten, preventing the motion, and Arthur gasps again despite himself. Soft, warm lips press against the shell of his ear. Arthur feels hot breath against his skin as the man whispers, "I'll take that as a yes."

Arthur is at a loss to do much besides breathe heavily and clench his fists to keep from reaching out. This man knows how to take Arthur apart with fingers and hips, so practiced, studied, and Arthur is inexplicably reminded of the paintings from earlier, the ones that were so perfect in every way except the one that mattered.

Arthur stares up into blue eyes gone dark, and suddenly he wants more. He doesn't want to be just another customer forgotten in the morning. He'll take what this man can give him, what he can see and feel and not quite touch, but there is something buried underneath the surface, something Arthur can't quite put his finger on, something that tugs at Arthur like a fishhook caught in the back of his breastbone.

Arthur takes a long, hard look into the man's eyes, searching, because once Arthur's set his mind to something he wants, he's going to get it. "There's something about you…" he says, and he's not entirely certain he's spoken out loud until the man pauses, frozen, looking at Arthur as if he's seen something there, too.

Arthur doesn't know how long they stay like that, immobile, lights swirling and their faces so close it would take one tiny movement to turn into a kiss. Arthur is trying to rein in his wayward desire when the other man takes Arthur's hand, watching Arthur's face intently as he sets it against the outside of his thigh, curling Arthur's fingers around the back of his knee.

Arthur swallows hard. "I thought I couldn't touch you."

The man licks his lips, nervous, and guides Arthur's hand slowly up, the brush of skin smooth under Arthur's palm. Arthur's hand settles in the crease of the man's hip, thumb perilously close to the other man's erection. "We're not really supposed to let you." There is still a hand covering Arthur's, and the man pushes Arthur's thumb closer to the bulge in his shorts. Arthur watches those blue eyes flutter shut, just for a moment, before they open again to fix hard on Arthur's mouth.

And Arthur has to ask, because he doesn't know, and it suddenly seems like the most important thing, like vital information. "What's your name?"

The other man blinks at him a moment, then smiles again, but this time it's different. Softer. "Merlin," he says.

Arthur nods and squeezes Merlin's thigh under his palm like some bizarre handshake. "I'm Arthur," he says, feeling a little silly.

Merlin's smile widens, just for a moment, and Arthur doesn't have time to smile back before Merlin is suddenly lifting himself from Arthur's lap. Arthur has a moment of confusion before he realizes, Right, of course. How did I really think this would end? For a moment, Arthur had almost allowed himself to believe the fantasy, to believe that Merlin actually wanted him. It's shockingly disappointing to remember that this is all just part of Merlin's job.

And then Merlin takes Arthur's hand and pulls him to his feet.

Arthur is too lust-stupid to object as Merlin leads him through the crowd. He dimly hopes that in the shifting lights of the club his erection isn't as obvious as it feels like it must be, but he knows that's most likely a vain hope. He doesn't give a thought to where they're headed, couldn't care less until Merlin drags him into a small dark room and pulls a heavy curtain closed behind them. The cloth muffles all but the heavy bass thump of the blaring music and the room is bathed in a soft bluish-purple light. There is a sketchy looking sofa in one corner. Next to it sits a table with condoms and packets of lube scattered across it like confetti, and if Arthur had any doubts about the purpose of the room before, he certainly doesn't now.

"Whoa," he says, jerking his hand out of Merlin's grasp. "I don't care what Gawaine paid you, I'm not going to—you don't have to—"

"Relax," Merlin laughs, grabbing Arthur by his tie to keep him from backing away. "Your friend only paid for the dance. The rest is my treat." Then he's reeling Arthur in by his tie, and Arthur is still a little drunk and a lot confused so it's nothing short of a shock when Merlin's lips meet his in a kiss.

Arthur can only stand there for a moment, dumbstruck. Merlin continues to kiss him, waiting for Arthur to catch up. His lips are even softer than Arthur imagined, warm and wet and surprisingly hesitant. It's that edge of hesitance, more than anything else, that hits Arthur like a sucker punch to the gut. He hauls Merlin close and claims Merlin's mouth with his own, pushing his tongue inside, swallowing down Merlin's startled gasp.

Arthur's hands roam over the flat planes of Merlin's back, the downy skin at Merlin's nape, too much naked skin for him to map with fingertips alone. He wants to use his mouth, to paint the canvas of Merlin's body with blue-purple bruises too dark to hide even in the dim light of the club. Arthur presses sloppy kisses to the point of Merlin's chin, the underside of his jaw, the pulse point beating frantically in his throat, and what little finesse Arthur may have possessed is lost in a haze of alcohol and the taste of Merlin's skin, the power of Arthur's want. Merlin's head falls back in a gasp, granting Arthur access to the long column of his neck. Arthur dips his tongue into the hollow between Merlin's collarbone and shoulder; sucks the skin into his mouth and barely sinks the blunt edges of his teeth in before he feels Merlin's hand under his jaw, lifting him away.

"No marks," says Merlin, then latches their mouths together again as if that will cushion the blow.

Right, obviously, Arthur thinks. He'd forgotten again. This isn't real; Merlin isn't his to claim, no matter how much Arthur may want it. It's not something Arthur even should want.

Merlin bites at Arthur's lips, as if reminding Arthur where his focus should be, and opens up to him, coaxing Arthur's tongue into his mouth with hot, little licks, and it's almost what Arthur wants.

Merlin starts loosening Arthur's tie, but Arthur still feels like he can't breathe.

"I don't—I don't normally do this," Arthur says as Merlin pulls the knot free and starts working on Arthur's shirt buttons.

"That's alright," says Merlin. "Neither do I." And something about the almost-shy duck of his head as he says it and the playful glance he shoots Arthur from under his eyelashes makes Arthur want to kiss him again. So he does.

Merlin comes willingly, molding his mouth to Arthur's as he tugs the shirttails free of Arthur's trousers. His slender fingers push upwards along Arthur's exposed skin, one hand curling in the hair on Arthur's chest as the other fists around the end of Arthur's loose tie, and Arthur doesn't even realize he's being prodded backwards until the backs of his knees collide with the skeevy couch and Merlin's hand pushes against his chest, sending Arthur flailing backwards in a spectacularly drunk sprawl across the cushions.

Merlin is left standing over him, Arthur's tie dangling from his fingers for a moment before he smiles insolently and drapes it over his thin shoulders like a prize. Arthur scowls. "You know, I'd like to see you try to manhandle me when you haven't spent all night pouring questionable purple drinks down my throat."

Merlin's grin widens and he pushes his shorts to the floor, stepping out of them towards Arthur, naked and wanting, all long, lean lines and knobby joints and hard cock.

"That almost sounds like an invitation," Merlin remarks mildly, settling onto Arthur's lap. Arthur's hands find their natural place bracketing the smooth skin of Merlin's hips and he desperately wants to say Yes, it is, and, Come home with me, but suddenly the reality of what he's doing slaps him in the face.

Arthur has had his fair share of one-night stands, but he generally regrets them. He is not the type of person to have dodgy sex with a stranger in the seedy back room of a strip club. They haven't really done anything yet, and Arthur can still make his escape without feeling too terribly guilty and sleazy tomorrow morning.

The way Merlin is looking at him (eyes so wide, the same shade of soft blue as the filtered light illuminating his skin) makes it clear that the next move is up to Arthur. If there were a time to stop this, that time would be now.

But Arthur doesn't stop it. Instead, he spreads his hand over the small of Merlin's back and pulls him closer, until Merlin's cock is pressed hard and hot against Arthur's bare stomach. He tilts his chin up to capture Merlin's red mouth in a kiss, soft and so tender Arthur is a bit shocked at himself. Arthur drinks down Merlin's quiet moan of surprise as Merlin cards his fingers through Arthur's hair, pulling gently. And Arthur can't help it, he knows there's no way for this to end well, but he's completely lost. Merlin pulls away, looking down at Arthur wonderingly. That little confused wrinkle has returned between Merlin's brows, and Arthur can't bring himself to reach up and smooth it out with his thumb so instead he puts on his best haughty smirk and says, "I suppose you're not completely useless at this whole lapdance thing."

Merlin snorts, the odd tension broken. "I'm a fast learner," he says. "It's one of my many talents."

"You have talents?" says Arthur. "Can't say that I've seen any of those."

Merlin's eyes spark at the challenge. "Well if you'd stop being such a bloody ponce, I'd be able to demonstrate properly," Merlin says, and grinds his arse against Arthur's erection. He cuts off Arthur's moan with a rough kiss, pushing his tongue into Arthur's mouth as he rocks his hips in the same maddening way he had out in the club, only this time his cock is dragging wet trails across the skin of Arthur's stomach and Arthur's cock is one thin layer of clothing closer to Merlin's arse. That somehow makes the whole thing even more unbearable.

Arthur's arms completely envelop Merlin's narrow ribcage, and Arthur sort of wants to feed him a truckload of steaks and a mountain of ice cream sundaes, but he can't so he just holds him closer. Arthur cups his hand around the back of Merlin's head, changing the angle to deepen the kiss, to get more of Merlin into his mouth. Merlin swallows around the groan Arthur makes; licks it up into his mouth like it's his due reward.

Arthur imagines how they must look, him still mostly clothed and Merlin completely naked and writhing up against him, bright flush of arousal blooming across his skin.

Arthur is so lost in the sweet pressure of Merlin's mouth that he doesn't notice Merlin's hand at his belt until it's already inside his trousers, wrapped around his cock. Arthur's hips give a valiant attempt at a thrust despite the fact that he's got a lapful of Merlin and absolutely no leverage.

Arthur's cock is thick and pink in Merlin's hand as he pulls it out of Arthur's trousers; Arthur hisses through his teeth at the almost-too-rough slide of Merlin's palm over the sensitive shaft. Merlin gives him a few dry strokes, enough to make Arthur dig his nails into Merlin's skin, then swirls his thumb around the head, collecting the moisture at the tip. He draws back far enough to meet Arthur's eyes, gaze half-lidded and dark as he brings his hand up and flicks his tongue over the pad of his thumb, lapping at Arthur's precome, and Arthur's pretty sure he can't fucking breathe. Merlin licks his palm (pink tongue peaking out between his fingers, getting his hand good and slick) and slides forward to wrap his wet hand around both their cocks. Arthur groans and says, "Fuck, fuck, Merlin," and bucks his hips helplessly into the delicious friction of Merlin's spit-slick grip.

Merlin strokes them both together, slowly, still thrusting forward against Arthur. Merlin's hand and his cock both rub against Arthur's length. Arthur buries his face in the crook of Merlin's neck, mouth open like he's trying to breathe in the taste of Merlin's skin. He cups Merlin's arse and tries to pull him closer, as if they weren't already pressed so tightly together that Merlin's hand barely has enough space to move between them—but it's not enough. Arthur needs more.

His fingertips drag across the puckered ring of Merlin's arsehole, almost by accident, and Merlin makes a surprised little half-gasp, half-mewl as his rhythm falters. Yes, Arthur thinks. Yes. That, and presses his fingers to the hot, wrinkled skin. Merlin's body shudders against Arthur's, once, breath hot and stilted against Arthur's ear. The noise he makes sounds like it's being pulled out of him.

"Yeah," Merlin says, even though Arthur hasn't asked, not really. "Yeah, okay."

Arthur grunts in protest when Merlin releases their cocks, but then Merlin is reaching back towards the table full of condoms and lube. The sweat at Merlin's temples glints in the low light and has made the hair at the back of his neck curl.

Merlin only has enough time to grab a fistful of whatever's in reach before Arthur pulls him back down again, fitting his mouth over the corner of Merlin's jaw, licking away a bead of sweat, salty on his tongue. Merlin groans and Arthur can feel the vibration against his lips.

Merlin puts the corner of one foil square between his teeth and rips open the second, says, "Gimme your hand," around the packet in his mouth so it comes out sounding a little ridiculous. He doesn't give Arthur time to comply, just grabs Arthur's hand from where it's been sneaking back between the cleft of Merlin's arse and the next thing Arthur knows his fingers are coated in cold, wet lube. Merlin tosses the empty packet into the darkness and takes the condom from his mouth so he can dive for Arthur's mouth, suddenly desperate and awkward and more than a little enthusiastic.

At the first push of Arthur's finger into the wet, clingy heat of Merlin's body, Merlin stills, his lip caught between his teeth and his eyes shut tight. Arthur makes a tiny, experimental move of his finger, and Merlin's breath hitches as his hips stutter back into the pressure from Arthur's hand and Merlin gasps again. Arthur's other hand comes up to cradle Merlin's face, to force their eyes to meet as he asks, "You have done this before, right?"

"Of course I have," Merlin snaps, as indignant as he can be when Arthur's teasing at his entrance with a second finger. "It's just—it's been a while, is all."

Arthur feels a flare of heat build in his chest, the knowledge that this is something rare, something special given just to Arthur, settling like electricity under Arthur's skin. He's determined to draw Merlin out, to make this so good that Merlin has no choice but to give himself over to it—to him.

Arthur adds a second finger and Merlin keens, shoving back as Arthur pushes in, Merlin's face buried in Arthur's neck and his breathy little noises escaping into Arthur's skin, sending warm shivers tingling down Arthur's spine. Merlin is trying to keep quiet, only lets out half-choked, desperate sounds each time he thrusts down onto Arthur's hand, but Arthur is having none of that. Arthur wraps his fingers around the back of Merlin's neck and holds Merlin's face still against his throat so he can feel the shuddering breath Merlin takes when Arthur adds a third finger.

"Fuck," Arthur groans, cock throbbing. He wonders if Merlin could come from this, if Arthur could make Merlin come from this, just the slippery push of his fingers in and out of Merlin's arse. Maybe this is why Merlin hasn't done this recently, why he so rarely lets anyone touch him this way. Because he likes it too much.

Arthur pulls Merlin's face up for another kiss, sloppy, since all Merlin seems capable of managing is to hold his mouth open and slack for Arthur's tongue. Arthur slides his hand down Merlin's arm until his fingers find the foil packet hanging from between Merlin's nerveless fingers. He tries not to grin too much over the fact that he's apparently managed to render Merlin useless with pleasure, because it means he has to put the condom on himself, and his senses aren't exactly whipcrack sharp at the moment. Merlin lets out a lethargic little giggle when Arthur fumbles and drops it the first time, and Arthur distantly promises himself that he'll make Merlin do it next time and have a laugh at his expense, and then he has to remind himself that there won't be a next time.

Merlin's chuckles stop when Arthur pulls his fingers free, using the excess lube to slick up his cock. He fists either end of his own tie still draped across the back of Merlin's neck and hauls him in close, foreheads and noses pressed together. "Ready?" he asks, voice unbearably rough inside his own throat.

Merlin meets Arthur's eyes, then raises himself up and slides down onto Arthur's cock.

He's impossibly tight. Arthur's lungs stop working while he tries to hold himself together, and when the grey at the edge of his vision fades he sees that Merlin's biting his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. His hands are clutching the lapels of Arthur's suit jacket in a white-knuckled grip that is sure to permanently wrinkle the fabric, but Arthur just runs shaky hands up his arms and asks, "Merlin? Are you—am I hurting—"

"Shut up," Merlin grits out. "Trying not to come, you arse."

And then there's nothing else for it; Arthur has to choke out a laugh, has to pull Merlin in and kiss him until he stops grinning like a besotted idiot, and then Merlin starts to move and it wipes the stupid grin right off Arthur's mouth. He slides up and down on Arthur's cock, tight heat squeezing a little around him with each thrust, and it's perfect, it's breathtaking, it's everything that Arthur should want—but it's not.

Merlin sets a torturously slow pace; Arthur can tell he's struggling not to speed up. Under Arthur's palms, the long muscles of Merlin's thighs quiver with the effort. His breathing is shaky but controlled, and the wrinkle of concentration has returned to its spot between Merlin's eyebrows.

Merlin is fucking him like he thinks Arthur wants to be fucked, and Arthur clenches his jaw in frustration. Arthur hates being catered to.

Stop holding back, Arthur wants to say. Let me have you. But when their mouths collide, more an open-mouthed exchange of breath than a kiss, all Arthur can say is, "It's okay," and, "Merlin, I want—" and, "Just let go."

And Merlin does.

His fists are still clenched in Arthur's jacket, holding on for balance as he rides Arthur's cock, his pace a little faster, his thrusts harder; his thighs smack against Arthur as he takes him in deep. Merlin's mouth falls open, the increasing rhythm of his hips overlaid against the heavy bass thump of the club and Arthur's own heartbeat, loud in his ears, and god, yes. This is it, this is what Arthur wants. Something real, something—intimate.

Merlin's fingers twist in Arthur's hair, tugging until Arthur lets his head fall back with a noise suspiciously close to a whimper. He's forced to meet Merlin's eyes, wide and hazy with want, face flushed and panting. It's too wild for them to manage kissing without painfully clacking their teeth together, so Arthur darts a kiss to the join of Merlin's jaw as Merlin pushes back onto his cock.

Merlin's thrusts grow erratic, stuttering in and out of rhythm, and if Arthur can just hold on a little longer, can draw it out and keep them both clinging to this edge for as long as possible—

All too soon, Merlin's fist tightens in Arthur's hair and he drives sharply downward and that's it, Arthur's done. He grabs Merlin's waist and holds Merlin still while he comes, buried as deep as he can go and still managing a few shallow thrusts up as he digs his fingernails into Merlin's hips. Merlin doubles over as his own orgasm follows, hot on the heels of Arthur's release. He curls into Arthur's body, arse clenching hard on Arthur's over-sensitized cock, and spurts thick, white splatters of his come against Arthur's stomach and chest.

As soon as he's finished, Merlin collapses against Arthur's chest like a rag doll. They heave gasping breaths in counterpoint as Arthur runs his hand up Merlin's sweat-slick spine and sinks his fingers into Merlin's hair. His other arm slips around Merlin's waist and just holds on.

Arthur feels it the moment Merlin tenses, lax limbs going stiff. Merlin sits back and stares at Arthur with wide eyes, like he's never seen Arthur before. Arthur's fairly certain that Merlin enjoyed himself just as much as he did, so he doesn't know why Merlin has started to look so horrified. It's a bit insulting, actually.

"Right," Merlin says, harried. "I should—I still have a few hours left on my shift. So I should probably—I'll just be—" And then Merlin is gracelessly extricating himself from Arthur's arms, Arthur's cock slipping awkwardly from Merlin's body in a way that can't possibly be comfortable, given Merlin's wince. He wobbles a bit as he puts on his garish shorts and doesn't meet Arthur's eyes. All in all, it is less than twenty seconds before Merlin is dressed and heading for the curtained exit with a stuttered, "It was nice meeting you," as if all they'd shared was a bloody handshake and some small talk, not the best sex of Arthur's life, and Arthur is suddenly, irrationally furious.

"Merlin!" he snaps, disregarding how difficult it is to appear intimidating with his mouth swollen red from kissing and come smeared on his stomach. Merlin pauses just as he reaches the curtain, and Arthur is treated to a long look at the pale expanse of Merlin's back, surprisingly broad shoulders veering into slim hips, and Arthur can see a few faint pink ovals where his fingertips dug into Merlin's skin, sure to leave bruises that will be visible above Merlin's waistband for days. Merlin turns and meets Arthur's eyes. His mouth opens as if he might speak, and Arthur waits. The heavy bass thump of the club is loud in the silence. Then Merlin pushes the curtain back and makes his escape.

Arthur sits there for a moment, feeling a bit like he just got run over by a bus—a bus full of gay porn stars. He fumbles off the condom, ties it off, and tosses it in the waste bin, then tucks himself back into his trousers and tries to rearrange himself into something vaguely presentable. It's not until he's buttoning up his shirt that he realizes Merlin ran off with his favourite tie.

The flashing lights and ear-splitting dance beats assault Arthur the moment he steps back out into the club. He finds Gawaine easily at the bar, and he only has to see the look on Gawaine's face to know he might as well be wearing a neon sign that says, 'I just got the fuck of a lifetime, thanks for asking.' He tries to smooth down his hair and make it look a little less like a man with long, slender fingers has just had his way with him. Gawaine just laughs. "So, still think this was a bad idea?"

Arthur feels his face heat, so he grabs Gawaine's jacket from the bar and tosses it at his friend's face, an unmistakable signal that it's time to get the hell out of here. "Gawaine, you are so bloody fired," he says, then turns on his heel and strides towards the door.

Gawaine catches up to him easily, shrugging into his jacket. They step outside into a blast of cold air and welcome silence, which Gawaine promptly breaks when he asks, "By the way, where's your tie?"

~*~

The next morning, Arthur wakes to an army of clog dancers in his head, the taste of a dead animal in his mouth, and the memory of a very ill-advised rebound shag.

He's already over an hour late. He wrestles his hangover into enough of a chokehold that he manages to pull on a suit and dark aviators. He grabs a coffee in the desperate hope that by the time he reaches the Gallery and has to deal with Morgana and her mystery artist, the angry bombers in his head will have abandoned the blitzkrieg on his brain cells.

He checks his messages on the way to work. There are four from Gawaine, each more giddy than the last, and each one saying he absolutely can't wait until Arthur meets the new artist he saw Morgana ushering into the lobby this morning. There are also three from Morgana, each threatening to do increasingly terrible things to his balls if he doesn't show up right bloody now. Arthur figures Gawaine is a sadist.

When Arthur gets to the Gallery, he slows his walk to a stop and gapes. The sidewalk is littered with paintings—Sophia's paintings. He looks closer. They're all labeled with small stickers that say £1.

Arthur bursts into the front door and shouts, "Morgana!" He winces, having momentarily forgotten the Hangover from Hell in his confusion.

"You bellowed?" Morgana says.

Arthur takes off his sunglasses in order to glare more effectively. "Care to explain to me when the Pendragon Gallery started holding bloody sidewalk sales?"

Morgana makes a dismissive noise. "Please, Arthur. The only reason those hideous things aren't being used to build a very expensive and very ugly bonfire is because we're contractually obligated to sell them. We'll be lucky if we can get rid of them even at that price."

"Morgana," Arthur begins, feeling his head start to throb. He wants to yell at her—he should yell at her—but, well, her idea is really kind of sneakily brilliant. Not that he'd ever actually tell her that. Ever. "You're going to have to explain this to my father," he says instead.

Morgana pales a little, but she recovers quickly. "Yes, well, you owe me. Maybe next time you'll listen when I tell you an artist is only sleeping with you to sell a few paintings," she says. There's no real bite in her voice, but it stings just the same. "And besides, we needed to clear space for our newest artist," she adds. "Now hurry up. You've kept him waiting for over an hour."

Arthur follows her into the studio, her high heels clicking haughtily on the wooden floor. "You know," he says, "I feel it's times like this that I should remind you that you work for me."

Morgana snorts. "And I feel it's times like this that I should remind you that you're clearly delusional," she says. "Now, do try not to be a complete oaf when you meet him. He's very talented, and Nimueh's been trying to snatch him up for a showing at her gallery, so don't do anything to scare him off." She stops just outside the wooden double doors to the interior of the studio and gives him a hard look. "Just…try to be charming. If that's possible."

Arthur glowers at her, affronted. "I'm always charming," he snaps.

"Mmm," Morgana says, noncommittally, then throws the doors open. On the other side, a man with black hair, giant ears, and a dopey grin turns to face them. His blue eyes go wide with recognition at the same time Arthur's jaw drops.

"You!" both Merlin and Arthur shout before Morgana can even make the introductions.

She pauses for a moment, stunned, before asking, "Wait, you two know each other?"

"No!" they both say, then glance at each other a bit sheepishly. Morgana raises her eyebrow.

"Erm, well, actually…" Merlin starts, at the same time Arthur says, "Um, technically…"

They exchange another mortified glance. Arthur runs a hand through his hair, and Merlin tugs at the collar of his ill-fitting (and most likely borrowed) suit. Arthur casts him another shocked glance. And then he does a double-take. Shock quickly gives way to outrage when he says, incredulously, "Wait—is that my tie?"

.

Something Fragile (When You Hold Your Breath)